


America (and back again)

by SneakyHufflepuff



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: AU, F/M, Minor Sexual Content, Swearing, Theft, action movie level violence, art theft AU, globetrotting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 06:57:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SneakyHufflepuff/pseuds/SneakyHufflepuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An art theft AU for kadollan. From the quote:</p><p>"Today's difference between Russia and the United States is that in Russia everybody takes everybody else for a spy, and in the United States everybody takes everybody else for a criminal."<br/>- Friedrich Durrenmatt </p><p>Natasha escapes the Red Room and decides the straight and narrow is for suckers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. US

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kadollan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kadollan/gifts).



> Thanks to lar_laughs for betaing and being fabulous. Thanks also to ashen_key, whose headcanon I mugged for much of this fic.

Natasha bit back the litany of Russian curses that came to mind as she jiggled the key in the third lock to her shitty downtown apartment. When she imagined leaving the Red Room, she imagined a life of glamor and excitement, not a boring nine to five and paying bills. Not an apartment building with a creaky elevator and loud American neighbors. Even her former handlers wouldn’t recognize her as she was now, green eyes hidden behind glasses and dull brown hair pulled back into a ponytail.

Mr. O’Brien, a beefy middle-aged man, got off the elevator. “Good evening, Natalie,” he said.

Natasha nodded in his direction and redoubled her efforts to get the door open. The only reason she had three locks was because that’s what her neighbours had, locks dotting every door like bizarre decorations. Everyone guarded their material goods so suspiciously, like they were the most important things in the world. Capitalists. Even after the wall had fallen her biases remained, for good reason. Mr. O’Brien was a prime example of the capitalist breed, he always had a new scheme that he thought would make him rich, always trying to pull his neighbors along for the ride.

“So, who are you voting for?” he asked, not seeing or caring that she wanted to be left in peace.

“I don’t know,” Natasha answered diplomatically. American political arguments could get ugly, with people shouting views that would have been whispered in fear or simply unspoken back home.

“You don’t know?!” If possible, Mr O’Brien seemed even more offended by this possibility than if she had expressed a preference. “So I suppose you wouldn’t be interested in purchasing special commemorative Al Gore memorabilia?”

“No.” Natasha shook her head firmly as the key finally slipped its way into the lock and she was finally able to push the door open. “Good night,” she said as she shut the door behind her in Mr O’Brien’s face.

She flicked on the light switch, overstuffed key-chain jingling in her hand. The light revealed the cream walls of her dreary apartment, partially covered by the cheap prints she had bought from a street vendor. The money she had carefully hoarded while working for the Red Room had run through her fingers like water as she had fled from one country to the next, eventually stopping in New York and creating her new identity as Natalie Rushman.

One more week, she promised herself as she flicked on the television to tune out the sounds from outside her apartment. One more week of playing Natalie Rushman, of seeing if it got any better. One more week until what? She shook her head, not wanting to think about the dull road in front of her of weeks and months spent like this. At least when she worked for the Red Room she had ups and downs. And when on missions, silk dresses and champagne. Yet here she was, too uninspired to do more than heat up pre-packaged food that had so much salt that it tasted like it had been thrown in the ocean first.

Natasha pulled the Lean Cuisine from the freezer and shoved it into the microwave. Then she settled into her nightly ritual of watching the least obnoxious show on television, blanket pulled to her chin. As the voluptuous protagonist broke into the mansion of a suspiciously young and attractive billionaire, a realization struck Natasha. She was punishing herself. For the San Paolo fire, for Drakov’s daughter, for the blood that streamed from her hands. Free and alone at last, she was subjecting herself to misery. _Fuck that_. She was finished stewing in guilt and hiding from her former captors. Ignoring the beeping of the microwave as it informed her that the plastic box the manufacturer considered a meal was ready for consumption, Natasha grabbed her emergency bag and walked out of her old apartment. She left the television blaring and the door open behind her. She might not deserve a life of luxury, but she’d take it anyway. When in America...

***

With a small click, the door to the small wall safe finally swung open. The golden Anubis statue stood inside, gazing serenely at his visitor. Natasha smiled in victory, but did not let herself relax, checking for a pressure sensor or any other security measures within the safe. Finding none, she swiped the statue from its stand and placed it in the black messenger bag at her feet. Standing in front of a safe in skin-tight dark clothing, she let herself savor the moment. She was a better looking, more competent version of the thief from the television show that she had left playing on the television six months ago.

Heralding trouble, a second click echoed through the room, the click of the safety of a gun being turned off. Natasha put her hands in the air and turned around, furious at herself for letting someone sneak up on her. The man in front of her couldn’t be security; he was dressed like she was, for stealth, face blacked to help him blend into the shadows. The hands that held the gun were rock steady.

“The way I figure it, Mr. Green is offering to pay two million to whoever delivers him that statue. One million each and this doesn’t have to turn bloody.” The man stepped out of the shadows, revealing short brown hair and blue eyes set in a creased face.

“I don’t take kindly to poachers,” Natasha told the man coldly.

“Darling, think about it. In this business, two is often better than one,”

“I’m afraid I’m going to need a more compelling argument, Mister..”

“Barton, Clint Barton.” The goofy grin he unleashed at the Bond reference was enough to make her roll her eyes. “I got through the same security system you did. I can forge, fight and steal. Let’s be friends. Partners, even. Miss...”

“Natasha Romanoff. What use do I have for a partner?” Natasha asked, examining Barton critically.

“A partner might stop poachers from sneaking up on you,” Barton replied, unflinching under her gaze.

Natasha inclined her head, acknowledging the point. “I did the work here. I get seventy percent of the payout.”

“This time. After that it’s fifty-fifty.” Barton re-holstered his gun and offered his hand for Natasha to shake. She took it.

It would have been easy to knock Barton on his ass and run with the statue. Or leave him dead in a bloody heap for daring to face her as an equal, but something more than an appreciation for the hand-knotted Persian rug beneath her stopped her from doing just that. It would be nice to have someone at her back from a change. And, she thought looking at the way his shirt clung to his form, hadn’t she promised herself a life of luxury?


	2. Sydney

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Natasha test the waters of their partnership in the Land Down Under.

Natasha and her new partner took the flight to Sydney in first class, a wealthy American couple splurging to visit the world. Clint had taken to the role with ease, giving Natasha another data point about him. He could change his persona at will, despite his seeming honesty. Still, for some reason she was choosing to trust him. His background had checked out; Clint Barton was an orphan who had a history of minor run-ins with the law until he had presumably gotten good enough to not get caught. And he didn’t fit the profile of a Red Room contractor at all, so it was unlikely he was planning to bring her back.

Unaware of her thoughts, Clint was paging through a book about Ancient Chinese weaponry in the window seat, eyes flicking from the illustrations to the text. He had brought a stack of books, treating the fourteen hours of travel from Los Angeles to Sydney as a battle to be won. He had initially wanted to take the flight in economy, but Natasha had overruled him. What was the point in being a millionaire if you didn’t have leg room?

Natasha passed out in her seat as soon as the plane leveled out from departure. She preferred to spend as much as the flight as possible unconscious. She loved being in new places, but getting there was another thing altogether. She woke up eight hours later and felt like screaming when she realized there were six hours more hours of travel to go. She paced the cabin, clumsily completing the recommended exercises to improve circulation, just as Tasha Robbins would. Clint, still reading, was watching her from the corner of his eye. She returned to her seat, skin crawling with the need to something, anything.

“Bored, darlin’?” Clint asked, eyes somehow still bright eight hours into confinement in a glorified metal cylinder.

“No, I just won’t feel human until I’m showered and fed.” Natasha sat back down into her seat, where her sleeping form had made an indent.

“You know you can ask for food anytime and they’ll bring it to you,” Clint said with a smile. First class was apparently growing on him.

Natasha gave him a withering glare. “I meant _real_ food. Preferably eaten with solid ground beneath my feet.”

Clint shrugged and went back to reading. Natasha began watching a sun-soaked soap opera full of attractive Australians. By the time they began the descent into Sydney, Natasha’s hair looked like a rat’s nest and she was conjugating verbs in her mind. Clint had finished his fourth book and had begun admiring the glittering water and the miniaturized view of Sydney Harbour below. Natasha leaned over his shoulder to glimpse Cockatoo Island, a small piece of land at the edge of the Harbour nestled between two rivers, the island where their prize lay. She couldn’t help but notice that countless waterways stretched liked crooked fingers throughout the city.

Landing, immigration and customs went by in a blur. Clint and Natasha checked into the hotel, a monstrosity of metal and glass overlooking the Harbour. They agreed on a recovery day, and Clint was gone by the time Natasha left the shower in her clean white dress. It took an exorbitantly expensive gelato at Circular Quay, the area between the Opera House and the Sydney Harbour Bridge, until Natasha felt like herself again. It was mid-day in Sydney, but her body still felt like it was late at night. The atmosphere was strange, bustling while being laid-back. Street-performers, backs to the Harbour, were surrounded by huddles of tourists and locals with sticky children. A loud magician with pink hair competed with a woman caked in silver paint for the attention of tourists. Natasha dropped coins into both of their plates and moved on, towards the Contemporary Art Museum. Her purse vibrated. She took out her mobile phone.

“So, I was thinking we should go to the zoo,” Clint said.

Natasha cocked her head, listening to Clint’s voice. Something about the sound through the phone was off. She twirled in the sun, her white sundress forming a fan around her as she spun. Clint was standing behind her, a grin on his face as he looked at her. “The zoo?” she asked, clicking off her phone.

“Did you see the photos of the baby animals at the airport? They were really cute. We should go.” He was dressed in jeans and a skin hugging black t-shirt, sunglasses hiding his eyes.

Natasha had seen the posters inviting tourists to visit Taronga Zoo, but hadn’t thought much of it. Baby animals were cute, grew up, made more baby animals, then died. Animal smuggling was too messy to be worth the bother. But at Clint’s wistful expression she reconsidered her apathy, after all she had never been to a zoo before. “Why not? But you’re not tagging along with me to the opera.”

“Thank god,” Clint said. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. She would be willing to bet good money that he would enjoy the opera, and look damned good in a suit. But she needed time to herself, so finagling him into a suit would have to wait for another day.

***

Natasha rested her fingers on the doorknob to their hotel room, the blood humming through her veins with the rhythm to the final song of the opera. The production of _The Magic Flute_ had been well done, taking her to an enchanted world for three hours. She took a deep breath, letting the reality of the world settle back down on her, and pushed open the door. Clint was still out, so she kicked off her four inch heels, took out her dangly earrings and sat down to her laptop in her blue silk dress. Their mission wasn’t going to plan itself. Fifteen minutes of blueprints and maps later, Clint walked in, workout clothes damp with sweat and a white towel around his neck. He was in a sleeveless purple shirt and tight shorts. Natasha looked up from her work, mentally blessing whoever had sold him the sleeveless shirt. She admitted to herself that her decision to partner up with the American had not been completely objective.

“I’ve known you for three weeks and I can already tell you’re a workaholic.” Clint walked towards Natasha to glance at her laptop.

“Says the man with an entire city to explore and who decides to go to the gym instead,” Natasha replied, closing her laptop.

“Everything shuts down at six here.” Clint shrugged as Natasha got up from her seat to stretch out her back and shoulders, arms held up to the ceiling. “There’s nothing to do.” Clint's eyes glazed as he watched her stretch. He moved closer to her, enough that she could feel the heat from his body.

“You poor man.” Natasha closed the distance between them, standing on her toes to brush her lips against Clint’s. It had the feeling of inevitability, like this had been simmering under the surface since the first time they met. Still, to her displeasure, he froze for a moment in surprise, before responding enthusiastically, his mouth on hers, his hands roaming her body. She moaned in approval and tried to take off his shirt but her hands slipped on his sweaty skin. She pulled back. “You’re dripping on my dress.” Natasha wrinkled her nose.

“I’ll buy you a new one.” He leaned forward to kiss her again.

She stopped him with a hand over his mouth. “Shower,” she said firmly.

He kissed her hand before she let it fall to his chest. She could feel his heartbeat racing under her hand. “You coming with me?” he asked, half-joking, half-serious, blue eyes sparkling.

Natasha laughed, untangled herself from Clint and began to walk towards the bathroom. “I certainly hope so,” she threw over her shoulder. Her back to Clint, she undid the fastening at the throat of her dress, letting it flow over her skin to fall into a silk puddle at her feet, revealing acres of smooth white skin and skimpy blue lace underwear.

“Fuck,” Clint breathed.

“That’s the idea,” Natasha said, and disappeared into the bathroom. Clint followed.

***

Cockatoo Island was a former prison and shipyard, covered with enough hiding spaces that even the most incompetent thief could dart through the island unseen. The problem was getting there. It was on a major waterway, close to two of the world’s most famous landmarks, the Sydney Harbour Bridge and Opera House. She had planned to hire a small boat and be in and out of the island, but soon realized the randomized patrols from police and the amount of recreational boating in the area made that plan too risky. Just by attempting to hire the boat she had been drawn into the subculture of Sydney boaters. There would be no way her movements would go unremarked and unremembered. But the prize waiting on the island, a royal tiara, would be put in jeopardy in two weeks, when construction started to turn the island into a gallery and event space. So she had rented two scuba diving suits instead.

It was a short swim to the island. Natasha crawled out of the surf a few steps before Clint. The water glistened black behind her, and the buildings ahead loomed large and shadowy. The light pollution from the city illuminated the path she planned to take. She shucked off the tank and her breathing apparatus, hiding it next to the dock, Clint in sync and silent beside her. Their dark wetsuits doubled as stealth gear as they made their way through cover.

Natasha dribbled salt water into the fusebox that the entire security grid was based on until it fizzled and died. She had hacked into the security company’s emails (Australia was five years behind much of Europe and the U.S. in terms of internet security) and found they had to replace the cameras twice already from the damage of the ocean’s proximity. She planned to replace the tiara with a forgery; her favorite theft was the one no one noticed until many weeks later.

Clint was already moving through his half of the search grid. They hadn’t been given the exact location of the tiara, only its image and its general location, another reason for Natasha to cut the cameras. It would take a few hours for her to search the moss covered buildings, and half an hour more to swim back to shore. The security firm was busy tonight, Natasha had made sure of it, but they would come in the morning and the window of opportunity would be gone. The first building Natasha entered was a small shack. It took a moment for Natasha to look inside and discover nothing was there. She moved on to a squat stone building, carefully making her way down the slick stairs. A series of small chambers, made for nineteenth century sized humans, housed nothing but scrap metal and an impressive colony of mold. Natasha returned above ground, her steps quickening as she felt the time remaining before sunrise tick away. Every boat roaring past was a possible witness, every light overhead was a possible patrol. It unnerved her, searching on a deserted island while dormant skyscrapers loomed above her.

Her phone rang, loud in the silence even on its quietest setting. It rang once more, then stopped. Clint’s signal. He had the tiara.

She crept to the dock, where Clint was waiting in his scuba gear, ready to go. His eyes lit up as soon as he saw her. “It was in the shipyard. Just a battery operated pressure sensor to worry about.” He brought out the tiara from his belt pouch, the cold diamonds and sapphires glittering in the glow from the surrounding city.

“You made the switch?” Natasha asked, eyes scanning her scuba gear for potential damage or weaknesses.

Clint was half-offended, half-exasperated. “No. I forgot to use the very expensive replica that was the centerpiece of our plan. I used a rock on the pressure sensor instead. They probably won’t notice the difference, right?”

Caught between a scowl and a smile, Natasha finished pulling on her tank. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Mission accomplished,” Clint said. “Now we just have to get back home. Looking forward to the flight?”

Natasha muffled her groan at the thought of the fourteen hour airplane ride, aware how sound could carry over the water. She elected to speak softly instead. “I’m sure you’ll think up a few ways to entertain me.”


	3. Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint discovers profiteroles and Natasha runs across an old enemy.

“We infiltrate the opening. The security system is only half set up. All we have to do is pull a fire alarm and leave with the rest of the guests. Sometimes the best plans are the simplest.” Natasha leant on the kitchenette counter, red hair loose and flowing over her green sweater. She and Clint had rented an apartment for their two week stay for more privacy than the average hotel.

“Good plan. There’s just one problem.” Natasha waited for him to continue, raising an eyebrow. “How are we smuggling the sculpture out? That thing is big. We can’t just hide it your dress. And there’s no way we can carry a three foot sculpture through the center of a party without anyone noticing.”

“Oh,” Natasha said, looking over the blueprints spread out over the table and gently hitting her palm against her forehead. Her gallery opening plan would have to be completely abandoned.

“You weren’t originally a thief, were you?” Clint asked, putting a hand at the small of her back and rubbing small circles there.

“No,” Natasha replied tersely. Clint’s eyes were on her as she looked down and played with the hem of her sweater.

“You can plan the getting in and the getting out fine, but the actual theft? Not your strong suit.” Clint was thinking aloud as he tried to puzzle out more about her.

“I used to steal information. Not things.”

“What happened?” He switched to massaging her upper back and shoulders, grimacing at the tension in her muscles.

“I got bored,” Natasha replied, closing her eyes lazily as she enjoyed the feeling of his hands on her back.

“We could turn the job down,” he offered.

Natasha pulled away, turning so she could talk face to face with Clint. “No, I’m not turning down five hundred thousand dollars. I only need three million more to retire,” Natasha said firmly.

“What’s the dream total?” Clint asked, curious.

“Ten million. Yours?” She relaxed as they moved away from the subject of her past.

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” Clint replied.

“Well you’re on two and a half million from the jobs we’ve pulled together, so you have to be pretty close.” Clint winced and rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Wait,” Natasha said. “You’ve been spending that money? On what?”

“Stuff. Here and there, you know?” Clint said.

Natasha tapped her foot, waiting for him to elaborate.

“Well Doctors Without Borders needed stuff. And so did the Red Cross...”

Natasha looked at Clint in open-mouthed disbelief. “What? How,” she paused, still processing the information. “Why?” 

Clint shrugged. “They needed it more than I did.”

Natasha’s mind started to race. She had two weeks to get this sculpture, no plan and a partner who thought he was Robin Hood.

“Do you want to hear _my_ plan?” Clint offered with a smile.

Natasha turned her answering smile into a quirk of her lips. “Okay, show me what you’ve got, Barton.”

For once Clint didn’t escalate the flirting. “We’re in Paris. First step: going out to eat. All work and no play makes Tasha a dull girl.”

Natasha stuck out her tongue at Clint, but still ran to get her coat. “Well, since you’ve been playing Daddy Warbucks, I guess I can take you out to lunch.”

Natasha had planned to take Clint to a real French restaurant, but his eyes almost popped out of his head at the first patisserie they passed. The array of pastries had him practically drooling on the glass. She dragged him inside the tiny shop and inhaled, filing the smell of butter and comfort away for the uncertain future. Memory stored away, she took a cursory glance at the selection and greeted the proprietor in perfect French. 

“Bonjour, Madam.”

“Bonjour,” Clint added cheerfully, still absorbed by the sight of so much sugar concentrated in one place.

Natasha winced at his accent, and ordered two profiteroles. The proprietor ignored Clint and exchanged the cream puffs for Euros. Natasha handed the paper bag to Clint as she collected the change. By the time she had turned around, purse in hand, Clint had already inhaled one of the pastries.

“This is the best thing ever. Seriously, Natasha. The. Best. Thing. Ever.” Clint’s mouth was full of cream and pastry.

“Vous en voulez encore?” The proprietor asked Natasha.

“Deux plus, s'il vous plait.” Natasha smiled, and reached back into her purse to buy two more of the profiteroles.

Clint finally swallowed his first profiterole and started to speak to the proprietor in French, turning on the charm. She sniffed in his direction and completed the transaction with Natasha.

Once they were out of the store, Clint turned to Natasha. “What kind of customer service was that?” he demanded.

“The European type.” Natasha laughed. If Clint were a bird, his feathers would be ruffled.

“I was trying to be nice. I’ve never had a cream puff like that before.” Clint reached for Natasha’s hand. She let him take it.

“Uhuh. I think you’re just offended by her failure to swoon at your baby blues.” Natasha began walking towards a small restaurant she had seen on the taxi ride from the airport, hand still intertwined with Clint’s.

“If you keep being mean to me, I’m not going to tell you the plan,” Clint said, bumping his shoulder into Natasha’s.

“Oh, do tell me your master plan. Hopefully it doesn’t involve you seducing any Parisians, because with that accent...”

****

“I can’t believe you made me leave the bow at home.” Clint whispered in Natasha’s ear, obviously uncomfortable in their moneyed surroundings. Fast-paced French accompanied by the whisper of expensive fabrics filled the lobby of the museum.

Natasha and Clint had visited so many museums over the past two weeks that Clint’s feet felt like they were melting into Dali clocks from all the walking he’d done. Natasha, who had visited even more museums by herself, was in a cheerful mood, snagging champagne from the tray carried by an immaculately dressed waiter.

“We’re just here for fun before the real job, remember. Besides, the bow ruined the lines of your suit.” Natasha took a sip of her champagne, savoring the taste.

While Clint and Natasha were planning to take the sculpture later that week, they still had tickets to the museum party and the clothes they had brought to wear. The security cameras had suffered a small malfunction and, after the theft was discovered, the guards would discover there was no usable footage from the past two weeks, further complicating the hunt for the sculpture. It would be like Clint and Natasha were never there.

Natasha turned to examine her partner critically. He had managed to rumple his perfectly tailored suit, but still made it look good. In any other city in the world she’d be beating women off with a stick just to stand next to him, but his charm was so uniquely American that she had him to herself. Natasha, by contrast, was the height of fashion in a backless red dress and fiery hair curling down the pale skin of her back. She had already rebuffed three men, with Clint’s glares and clenched jaw being perceived as a challenge rather than discouragement.

“Come and enjoy art with me,” Natasha said with a smile. Despite being at the party for fifteen minutes they were still standing in the lobby of the new museum. White marble pillars dotted the outside and supported the upper balcony, while also half-hiding the three doors to each ground-floor gallery. A genuine Rodin stood in the center of the lobby, observing the party-goers with equanimity from atop its plinth .

“I don’t understand how you can stare at a painting for fifteen minutes. It doesn’t change,” Clint grumbled.

“Oh please, you were just as enchanted with the Louvre as I was. But I promise not to tell anyone about your unmanly love of art.” Natasha locked eyes with Clint, a smile on her lips. Her heart skipped a beat as he smiled back. She looked away.

Natasha went back to drinking her champagne before catching a glimpse of a woman in a black sheath dress entering the room. Her cheer drained abruptly away. The woman was Madame Dumont; she had more money than God and enough influence in the right (or wrong) circles that the Red Room had been all too happy to do dirty jobs for her on the side.

“We need to leave, now,” Natasha told Clint, her voice tight.

Clint’s sharp eyes spotted Dumont and her predatory gaze. “Okay,” he said, and headed rapidly to the door, Natasha in tow.

The heavy wooden doors swung shut in front of them before they could make it more than three steps. As one, the party guests began to head for the galleries, all of them studiously avoiding Clint and Natasha’s gaze. They left the room empty behind them, with just Dumont standing there, her dress a black exclamation mark against the light marble.

“The best spy in the world they told me,” Madame Dumont’s words rolled towards Natasha over the marble, echoing like the memory of a nightmare. She walked towards one of the side galleries unhurriedly, heels clicking on the marble like the lock on a jail cell. “Unpredictable, flawless tradecraft. Impossible to catch. I knew better, Widow. You couldn’t resist the gowns, the smiles, the performance, could you? Or the five-hundred thousand.” Dumont pulled a gold-enamelled revolver out of her purse, white gloved hands cradling it with care.

“Madame,” Natasha began, her demeanor calm and unruffled as she turned to keep Dumont in her sight. “If you’re going to shoot me, do it before you get to the evil villain speech. I’ve had enough of those to last a lifetime.”

Clint took a few steps forward, closer to Dumont and the sculpture in the center of the room, all the restless energy he usually exhibited transformed into iron hard focus. Natasha looked at him quizzically from the corner of her eye but moved with him.

“But there’s the question of what to do with your _charming_ friend here.” Dumont said playfully, with just a hint of irony. “If you agree to come back quietly, we’ll let him go, free of charge.” Dumont’s thick French accent allowed her to layer the words with menace.

“Come back?” Natasha asked, her legs suddenly unsteady as memories of the life she escaped surfaced against her will.

“Of course, darling, the Red Room was devastated to lose a valuable asset such as yourself. And to be wasting your skills on theft.” Dumont clucked in disappointment. “It’s like seeing a Van Gogh bought by a vulgar American billionaire.”

“Don’t,” Clint said, speaking to Natasha. “Don’t trade yourself for me.” He ignored Dumont and looked at his partner, worry for her overcoming any worry he had about the situation he found himself in.

Natasha recovered from her momentary fear. “I wasn’t planning on it,” she told Clint quietly before focusing her attention back on Dumont. “You’ll have to drag me kicking and screaming.” She took one last sip of champagne before throwing the glass to the side. The shattering of the glass was almost musical as the sound bounced off the marble walls.

Dumont threw back her head and laughed. “Well, they’d rather have your head than you out in the world, providing hope to the others.” She placed her gun back in her purse and clapped her gloved hands theatrically. Muscular men and women in grey suits began pouring onto the balcony overlooking the lobby. Clint and Natasha pulled their hidden handguns as Dumont retreated into a gallery.

As one, the goons produced guns from their jackets. Clint and Natasha dove behind the plinth and its sculpture as the gunfire started, bullets almost unbearably loud as the sound bounced off the marble walls and floor.

“They’re shooting the Rodin!” Natasha exclaimed in horror. She shot the two men closest to her position, taking four shots.

“It’s bronze. I’m sure it will be fine,” Clint said, deadpan. Two fighters were inching along the balcony to bypass the cover the Rodin provided. Clint shot twice. They went down with red streaming from identical holes in the center of their foreheads.

“How much ammo did you bring?” Natasha asked. She rose briefly from her cover to finish her eight round magazine. By the time she ducked behind the statue, two more goons had red circles blooming in their chests. The intensity of the fire aimed towards Natasha increased. She curled in on herself, making her body as small of a target as possible.

“One magazine. Enough.” Clint stayed behind their cover. He looked briefly at the reflective marble, and turned to shoot, exposing only his arm. Three shots rang out. Three bodies hit the floor. “But you know what would be really handy right now?” Natasha rolled her eyes as she reloaded her handgun, because she knew exactly what he was going to say. “My bow.”

“I have a grenade. Does that work?” Natasha timed her move so she was shooting when most of the remaining goons were reloading. She spent six of her eight bullets, but only two men went down, the remaining goons presenting less of a target than their earlier brethren.

“You have a grenade?” Clint shook his head. “Of course you have a grenade. Hand it over.”

Natasha fished the grenade from its sheath in her thigh and set it on the floor next to Clint. Clint threw it over the top of the sculpture towards the five goons remaining without pulling the pin first. Natasha watched as he shot through the gap between the arm and the waist of the sculpture, hitting the grenade at the point in its arc where it would do the most damage. Three of the goons were immediately out for the count, and Clint shot the other two in the space of a heartbeat.

“I’m out,” he said, ruefully looking at the now empty gun in his hands. He switched his gaze to Natasha. “This was supposed to be a fun and relaxing party.”

“As parties go, this one is at least a four out of ten.” Natasha paused, letting the post battle adrenaline settle. “Let’s head to the left emergency exit. It swings inwards, so they can’t have barred it from the outside,” Natasha said, blessing every moment she had spent sweating over the blueprints. “Unless you have a better plan.” _Please have a better plan_

“Doesn’t look like we’re gonna get through those doors.” Clint jerked his head at the frustratingly solid doors barring the main entrance. “The emergency exit is probably our best bet.” Clint tucked his gun back into his jacket.

Natasha pulled her heels off and ran to the gallery to the left, gun still in hand, Clint following. She moved like a panther over the ground, fluid and fast. Clint had to strain to keep up. They only had to make it two rooms until the exit. The first room, showcasing art from the World Wars, was empty. When Natasha was halfway across the room, between a tiny cabin made from bullet cases and a painting depicting men dying horribly on the battlefield, she heard heavy steps coming from the room in front of them. Natasha only had two bullets left. She ducked behind a wooden plinth and motioned for Clint to do the same. Seconds later, three sets of boots entered the room. Breathing heavily, Natasha spent her last two bullets on the lights above and began moving before the glass from the shattered light bulbs hit the ground. The goons were unprepared for the sudden decrease in light. The first goon went down as she clocked him over the head with her empty handgun. The second, with a knee to the groin and an elbow to the neck. The third began shooting wildly into the darkness. In three quick steps Natasha managed to sneak up behind her, grab her head with both hands and break her neck with a quick twist.

“Let’s move!” Natasha hissed to Clint.

They ran towards the last room that stood between them the exit, blinking at the new light.

“So predictable,” Dumont said sadly. She stood between them and the emergency exit, her revolver levelled at Natasha’s chest.

Clint moved between her and Dumont, shielding Natasha’s body with his own.

“Ah, Mademoiselle Widow, I had forgotten how quickly you ensnare them in your web.” Madame Dumont kept the heavy French accent, but spoke slowly enough that she clearly meant her mocking words to be understood by Clint.

“Look lady, I’m not sure what your problem is, but we can all walk away from this.” Clint gave her his best _aw shucks, I’m just a dumb hick_ smile.

Madame Dumont smiled in return, her revolver pointed squarely at his chest. Despite the woman’s ice-cold veneer, Natasha could tell the crime boss was more used to doing her evil deeds from a distance. Her stance was wrong, and she’d be thrown off balance by the first shot. Still, it only took one bullet. Natasha pressed up against Clint as if afraid, pressing a knife she had hidden in her cleavage into his hand, his body blocking her movements from Dumont’s sight.

“You don’t need to die today,” Dumont said, motioning for Clint to move. He scowled and stayed motionless. “Last chance, mon petit insecte.” Dumont’s smile was vicious, twisting a face already distorted from many years of plastic surgery.

“Yeah, I’ll think I’ll pass. Making a deal with a woman waving a gun at me seems like a bad idea.” Clint took the knife from Natasha.

Dumont made as if to shoot but Clint was faster. The knife left his hand in a blur and planted itself in Dumont’s chest. Dumont’s finger pressed the trigger as Clint pulled Natasha to the floor, still shielding her with his body. Natasha let out a soft ‘whumph’ at the impact of the stone floor. The bullet went high, punching a hole into a small blue painting behind the thieves.

Natasha closed her eyes in relief before wiggling out from under Clint to check Dumont for signs of life. The French woman’s eyes were open and empty as her blood pooled across the floor. Threat dismissed, Natasha knelt by Clint, who was sitting up with a bemused grin on his face. “Are you hit?” Natasha asked, not waiting for a response to rip open his suit jacket and check for blood.

“I’m fine.” He caught her hands in his.

They held eye contact, both reassuring themselves that the other was okay. The sound of police sirens shattered the moment.

“On the plus side, at least we don’t have to move that sculpture,” Clint quipped.

Natasha hit him lightly on the shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.”

The two thieves pushed open the emergency exit and melted into the night.


	4. Then the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Natasha take on the world.

They didn’t talk about the museum party until two weeks later. The icy rain falling outside the London flat made the inside seem cozier by comparison. The television screen flickered, but neither Clint nor Natasha found British comedy particularly amusing. The thieves had gradually fallen into a doze on the sofa. They were in the bubble of contentment that came from just the right amount of food and alcohol, Natasha half lying on Clint, his hands running idly through her hair.

“I’m sorry,” Natasha said.

“For what?” Clint asked, no longer surprised by the way Natasha’s mind sometimes jumped from place to place.

“For putting you in danger at the museum. For putting you in danger by being your partner.”

Clint shrugged. “We all have our skeletons. Mine have probably formed a little closet government by now, with a skeleton king and a mini skeleton palace.” Natasha cut him off with a look. “Sorry, bad joke. You were saying?”

Natasha maintained eye contact with Clint, willing him to understand her words. “Dumont called me The Widow. That’s true twice over, once because my husband died, and once because they made me into a weapon. It was my title. The Black Widow. They took everything, my memories, my mind, myself. It took me years to escape. I was their most successful experiment, and now that they know I’m still alive, they’ll want me back.”

Clint looked back at her, understanding in his eyes. Natasha relaxed into his arms, resting her head on his chest. He said nothing for a while, his hand still running through Natasha’s long red hair, strands weaving through his fingers.

Finally, Clint began to speak. “I grew up with a piece o’ shit father. He beat my mother, brother and me. I thought it was normal. I thought that was what every family was like. Then he put the car into a tree with Mom in the passenger seat.” His eyes turned dark with a rage that had long ago turned sour. “Me and Barney went into the system, and we learned how to steal. We got so good at it that we started to break into houses. One day I got caught. Barney didn’t. He left for the military as soon as he was able. And here I am.”

Natasha contemplated all the events of her life that had brought her here, to this flat, to this man. “I’m glad you’re here, with me.”

“Me too. You’re a pretty awesome partner, Nat.” Clint stopped playing with her hair to press a light kiss to her temple.

“You’re okay too,” Nat joked, attempting to lighten the tone of the conversation. At Clint’s wounded look, she continued. “You almost took a bullet for me. And you’re a heck of a pillow.”

“Hmmm, really?”

“Really. If this whole cat burglar thing doesn’t work out, you should consider it as a career.”

“I knew it. You only want me for my body,” Clint said with a smirk. She could feel his chest vibrating with laughter.

“You know it. Now kiss me properly.” Natasha turned her face towards him expectantly.

“Yes, ma’am.” He did.

***

“Merry Christmas!” Clint shouted, present in hand. He was dressed in boxers dotted with red-nosed reindeer, his eyes lit up in excitement. The lights from the Tokyo street outside were still on as sunlight slowly seeped over the horizon. It was almost impossible to tell where the light pollution started and the sunlight began.

Natasha sat up in the bed, threw out her arms and stretched, hair still tousled from sleep. Her hands almost brushed the top of the ceiling in the cramped hotel room, less than half the size of the equivalent European one. “It’s seven o’clock in the morning.” She complained, while eying her half-naked partner appreciatively.

“On December 25th!” Clint jumped on the bed, landing next to Natasha with a thump.

“You do realize Russian Christmas is on January 7th?” Natasha asked, eyes twinkling.

“Russian Christmas?” Clint said in disbelief, the wind temporarily out of his sails.

“Natasha. Romanoff.” Natasha enunciated the syllables clearly. “Where did you think I was from, Italy?”

“Huh.” Clint sat back on his haunches, the sheets and blankets hopelessly tangled around him. “You know what this means?” A slow smile spread across his face. “You told me your name the first time we met. Your real name.”

“You didn’t shoot me. It seemed like the thing to do.”

“Best decision I ever made,” Clint said, leaning forward to kiss Natasha. “Now open your present.”

Natasha looked at the package suspiciously. It was wrapped competently in green paper, a red bow perched sloppily on one side.

“Open it!” Clint was practically vibrating in excitement, his eyes intent on her hands.

She ran a fingernail underneath the tape holding one edge of the paper to the other, unwrapping the present and keeping the paper intact. Out tumbled a small wooden box. It was a deep brown, and shone in the early morning light. “You got me a box. Thank you.” She kept her face and voice neutral as she pondered the meaning of the gift.

“I _made_ you a box. Open it.”

Natasha looked down at the box in her hands, a little awestruck. For Clint to obtain the materials and make it without her knowing was an impressive feat. She ran her fingers over the smooth lid, eyes tracing the path of the grain, remembering the day two weeks ago when Clint had wood dust on his fingers that had felt heavenly against her skin. She hadn’t thought anything of it at the time.

Clint was still looking at her, hope in his eyes. She opened the box. It was lined with red velvet and divided into sections for different types of jewelry. Two sets of earrings shimmered inside. One set was of black opal, and one set of white, each earring burning with an internal fire. Of course, opals in a Sydney shop window had caught her eye, but she and Clint had been too busy to go inside at the time.

Speechless, Natasha pulled Clint in for a long kiss. _I don’t deserve you._

“Don’t worry. You don’t have to get me anything. Your amazing presence is enough.” Clint’s tone was joking, but his eyes were serious. He just wanted her. It was a heady feeling. Still, Natasha liked to be prepared for every eventuality.

Natasha gave Clint a slightly evil grin. “Look under the television.” She nodded her head towards the standard issue hotel cupboard on which a small television perched. Clint looked from Natasha to the cupboard, then flew from the bed to look inside. Stuck to the top of the cupboard was an impeccably wrapped purple present, silver ribbons cascading from the top in even loops. Clint turned to Natasha in surprise. “Schmuck,” she said.

Clint tore open the wrapping paper. Inside was a collapsible longbow that could fit under a suit. “Best non-Russian Christmas present ever!”

Something in Clint’s expression made her heart melt. Who knew presents would be so fun to give?

“You’re welcome. Wake me up at a reasonable hour.” Natasha rearranged the sheets around her, slumped back into bed and closed her eyes. As she fell into the world between dreaming and waking, she couldn’t help feeling like Clint had gotten her the better present.

***

In Spain, Natasha bought an enamel necklace that she added to the wooden box. In India, a gold bangle. In London, tacky plastic hoop earrings in red, green and white. In Venice, fragile glass earrings that were such a deep blue they were almost purple. Clint gifted her with a small black cat figurine that was frozen in a permanent hiss. It ended up in the wooden box. In September, they were in Paris for a second time. Natasha’s birthday present to Clint was a scrapbook of recipes from each of the places they visited, including a recipe for profiteroles scrawled in French on a flour covered receipt.

Natasha had ten million US dollars in her bank account by the time they were in Paris. To celebrate, she went to Cartier and brought back a blocky watch for Clint and a more elegant one for herself. Clint was waiting at the apartment, ashen faced, with a cellphone in hand.

“It’s for you,” he said, holding out the compact phone. It cast a sickly glow over Natasha’s skin as she brought it to her ear.

“Ms. Romanoff?” The voice on the other end of the line was male and authoritative.

A memory tickled at the back of her mind, and her stomach churned in fear. She let none of of that show in her voice. “This is she.”

“You and your partner, Clint Francis Barton, are currently at 43 Rue Pascal. We have two teams waiting to apprehend you.” Clint’s full name was spoken as a threat and a promise.

She placed the voice, and knew her fear was entirely rational. “You certainly don’t waste time with the pleasantries, Director Fury.” Natasha’s tone was wry and unafraid, but her eyes were wide as she scanned the room for bugs.

“I don’t have time, Ms. Romanoff.”

“Why the phone call? Typically, I don’t receive a warning from my enemies before they attack me. It’s very polite of you, though.” The light from the hideous ceramic lamp shone too bright; she walked into the darkened bedroom, the shadows hiding her from unseen eyes.

“Because I don’t want to be your enemy, Ms. Romanoff. In fact, we can be allies.” Natasha was relieved when he didn’t insult her intelligence by saying friends.

She sat down on the apartment bed and forced herself to relax. Clint sat beside her, a steady presence. “You’ve shown me the stick. Let’s hear the carrot.”

“Both of you will have your past wiped from the system. No more worrying about government agencies, for either of you.”

“What’s the job?” Natasha kept the sentence short and clipped so they would have as little information as possible about her if she chose to run. No doubt this conversation was being recorded so it could be added to her file, hidden somewhere away in the bowels of S.H.I.E.L.D.

“You’ve heard of Iron Man?” Fury stated, more than asked.

“The American billionaire who plays at being God? Yes.” Still sitting beside Natasha, Clint leaned into her to offer and receive comfort. She climbed into his lap, letting the warmth of his body burn the fear away.

“He is unstable. We need the plans for his suit.”

“And you want us to steal them.” Natasha didn’t worry about the wider ramifications of S.H.I.E.L.D. having the suit. The play of nations and intelligence agencies was no longer her concern.

“Yes. Within the week.”

“You want us to break into possibly the most secure residence in the world for priceless information. I want two million dollars, plus expenses,” Natasha said, settling into bargain mode.

“You don’t always get what you want.” Fury paused ominously. “But I see your point, five hundred thousand US dollars, plus expenses. I’ll call with further instructions.”

The call terminated abruptly. Natasha was left staring at the phone in her hands. Clint settled his arms around her.

“What did he say to you?” Natasha asked.

“That he knew who both of us were. That our business was no concern of S.H.I.E.L.D. if we did as they asked. I said you were the brains of the operation.” Natasha closed her eyes in thought, burying her face in the crook between Clint’s neck and shoulder. He smelled of the generic hand soap he favored, hair still wet from a shower. “What are we going to do?”

“What they want us to do. I think we can trust them to keep their word. We do this for them, and we disappear from the system,” Natasha murmured quietly, still aware that their every word and action could be monitored.

“We can run.” Clint’s arms tightened around her, as if he sought to protect her from the rest of the world.

“From S.H.I.E.L.D?” Natasha let out a hopeless laugh that was muffled in Clint’s shirt. “Not for long.”


	5. US (again)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Natasha meet Tony Stark.

_“You can’t have all the things you want, Natalia.” Her old instructor appeared in front of her, speaking with Fury’s voice. Disappointment twisted his face, just as she remembered. “You have been chosen for more.” A murmur started in the back of her mind, a voice from far away. She pushed it aside to focus on the immediate danger._

_“Yes, sir,” she replied._

_The instructor held up the chocolate she had smuggled back into the compound after her first mission. It glittered in the firelight, the packaging the same as the chocolate her father had brought back from Moscow before the fire. The chocolate, shared among them, had been sweet and rich on her tongue, unlike anything she’d tasted before or for long after. The memory of her parents slipped away each day she stayed here, drilling in the art of espionage._

_Her instructor threw the chocolate bar into the fire. She watched the bar arc into the air in slow motion, watched it hit the wood and send sparks into air. The instructor waited, ominously silent. Natasha kept her face emotionless and her body relaxed. Crying out would do nothing but invite further punishment. The packaging shrivelled up and burned as the chocolate melted and hissed.The smell of burnt chocolate made her stomach ache. She hadn’t eaten in hours, a punishment for bringing contraband back into the Red Room._

_“You are provided for here, Natalia. You don’t need anyone or anything other than what we give you. Remember that always.” The instructor leered at her, an eyepatch appearing on his face._

_The murmuring at the back of her mind grew louder. She felt a light hand brush her shoulder._ She opened her eyes, and found herself on a passenger plane over the Atlantic, pulse racing with remembered fear.

“Nat, you alright?” Clint asked, up from his seat and crouched in front of her. “You were tossing in your sleep.” The hum from the plane engines and the wide spacing of the seats in the business class cabin meant that they had limited privacy to talk honestly.

“Fine,” Natasha lied. She closed her eyes, the imprint of her dream still on her eyelids and an ache beginning to form in her head. “It’s was just a bad dream. And I _will_ be fine once this is all over.”

“One last job,” Clint said ruefully. “Well, at least we have a good plan. I like the plan.” He shot her a smile, eyes still heavy with concern.

“That makes me nervous.” Natasha responded to Clint’s cheer with a smile, the shadows under her eyes all but disappearing.

“If you need to talk,” Clint began.

“No,” Natasha snapped, a little too forcefully. “I should sleep.” She needed to be at her best when they broke into Stark’s Malibu mansion.

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” Clint promised. He moved back to his seat, expression unreadable behind sunglasses as the airplane steward began to move through the cabin, asking passengers for their drink order.

Natasha closed her eyes and willed her brain to rest. It wasn’t easy when her brain was screaming at her for being underprepared for the mission. So many things could go wrong. Stark could be awake and in the lab, Potts could return from Rio early, the Head of Security could suddenly become competent. So much room for error. Her hacking skills were good, but she wasn’t looking forward to going against Tony Stark of all people.

***

Natasha held up three fingers. Two. One. A closed fist. By her count, the virus had successfully infiltrated Stark’s system. The mansion was impregnable with the computers running but, sans tech, it would be laughably easy for two experienced burglars to get in and out. Clint, a silent presence behind her, went forward on her signal, bow and arrows on his back. He lead her through the ventilation ducts, comfortable in the cramped space and eyes sharp in the near darkness. Light leached through the grating that lead into the lab. Clint unscrewed the bolts around the grate neatly with his screwdriver, lifting it to the side before dropping through. He whistled, the signal for all clear. Natasha dropped in after him.

The lab was a mess of cables and computers. Benches were covered in tools and bits of metal Natasha had no word for. The electrics hummed, dormant from the virus Natasha had introduced into the handily integrated system. Clint wove throughout the mess of the lab, on the lookout for any residents or security they’d missed due to their rush.

Natasha knew what happened to hackers who tried to take the Iron Man plans from Stark’s system. The good ones ended up in a cubicle at the FBI, the really good ones in a cubicle at Stark Industries. Neither fate appealed to her, so she had decided to do the only thing she could think of - steal the physical copy for S.H.I.E.L.D. to reverse engineer. She needed only one limb, the helmet and a copy of the arc reactor, all which could be found in the lab.

“Got it!” Clint called, holding up an arc reactor and throwing it quickly to Natasha.

Natasha caught it easily, then grabbed a half-painted glove from the table. It was missing its mate. She stuffed both items into her bag. “We just need a helmet.”

Anything metal was camouflaged by the mess, but Clint’s freakishly good vision was useful yet again. He let out a cry of victory and pointed to the wall behind her. She turned to see an old version of the Iron Man helmet glaring balefully at her. She picked it from the wall and headed to the ducts, ignoring the tingling on the back of her spine. Clint lifted her so she could pull herself in, but before she could return the favour and pull him up, the door to the lab hissed open.

“Don’t move, Mister Medieval Weaponry.” Stark’s voice, with the whir of a repulsor to back him up.

Natasha cursed. Her contact had promised her that the suit wouldn’t work as long as the system was down. Through the grating she could only see the top of Clint's head. He stepped away and she was left with a view of the floor.

“That’s a fancy glove. Mind not pointing it at me?” Clint laid on the Midwestern charm thick.

Natasha closed her eyes in relief. It was just the glove, not the full suit. They had a chance of getting out of here alive. 

“Sir, there was another intruder. Full surveillance security systems will be up in three minutes.” A male voice with an English accent echoed across the room, sounding almost sick. Which was strange, as Stark’s Head of Security was American. Still, Natasha was certain she could make it out in two minutes. She began to crawl back into the ducts, already planning how to break Clint out once she’d delivered the package to S.H.I.E.L.D.

“Thank you, Jarvis,” Stark said. He increased the volume of his voice. “Thing Two. Come out wherever you are, or Thing One gets it.” There was an underlying mania in his voice. Natasha knew the sound of a man about to snap. Stark was in that category.

Clint snorted. “C’mon. My hair isn’t that bad.”

Stark exhaled, was that a laugh under his breath? “I mean it, Thing Two. I’m not letting the suit out into the world. Do you want your partner’s death on your hands?”

All she had to do was retrace her steps and she'd be home free, no record and five hundred thousand dollars richer. She could have the life she’d planned for, with all the privileges and status accorded to a young and attractive millionaire. All of that compared to Clint wasn’t even a consideration.

Natasha dropped from the ceiling, rolling to her feet to face Stark, gun in hand. By the time Stark had swung to face her, she had her weapon up and pointed at his head. “Let him go,” she said, her face serene and free from emotion.

Tony’s eyes widened in surprise as he took in the sight of her. “Look Clyde, Bonnie’s decided to join us.” The repulsor glove was a fiery eye on the palm of his hands and aimed at Clint, who had his hands held up and his posture relaxed so as to appear non-threatening. Natasha knew he would need only a heartbeat to put an arrow to his bow.

Natasha grinned, guessing that Stark would like spirit more than false contrition. “Well Bonnie is better than Thing Two.”

Stark smiled, despite himself, but anger still crackled around him like electricity. “Two wisecracking thieves. What did I do to deserve the honor?”

The Englishman spoke again. “Systems fully operational, sir. I have recovered from the attack. Would you like me to disable the thieves?”

Stark looked between the two of them as if they were faulty equipment he was evaluating.

Natasha’s mind raced until she put two and two together. The Englishman was an artificial intelligence, which would explain how he had repaired the systems so quickly. The virus would feel like an attack, like she’d trapped him in a too small box. No wonder Stark was furious. She slotted her handgun back into it’s holster. “Jarvis,” she called out, assuming he had microphones in the room. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you existed.”

“Two very interesting thieves.” Stark said. “Just the tranqs will do nicely, Jarvis.”

“No!” Natasha cried out, but it was too late. Three separate darts hit her in the neck, calf and thigh. The world went blurry.

***

She woke up slowly, arm thrown around Clint, who was breathing like he was asleep on the other side of the bed. She was about to move closer when she remembered how she’d fallen asleep. She flinched at the memory of the darts embedded in her skin. Natasha checked her clothes. Still on, and only the obvious weapons removed. She and Clint had been set on what looked like a king size bed in the center of the master suite. From the squawking of seagulls and the crash of the ocean outside she guessed she was still in the Malibu house and that this was probably a guest bedroom.

“Ms. Romanoff.” Jarvis’s voice echoed from the ceiling. “Would you like breakfast?”

“Yes please, Jarvis.” A frisson of fear went down her arms at the revelation that Jarvis - and by extension - Stark, knew her identity. Still, she looked around her. The white walls had tasteful prints on them, the bedside table a glass vase filled with marbles. This was the exact opposite of the cell she had envisioned.

“There is yogurt in the fridge. A wider selection of food will be available after your job interview.”

“When exactly is my job interview, Jarvis?” Natasha asked, voice matching the A.I.’s for dryness.

“Five minutes. I suggest waking your partner,” Jarvis said.

So the A.I. wasn’t all knowing. She could tell that Clint had been awake for a while, collecting what data he could behind closed eyes. She shook Clint to help further the charade. “Wake up.”

He opened his eyes and performed a very convincing yawn and stretch. “What’s happening, Tasha?” he asked, tugging her hair in lieu of pushing it out of her face as he usually would.

“We have a job interview,” she told him what he already knew with a smile. She examined him covertly for injury, relieved to see he was in no worse shape than she was.

He groaned. “And me without my suit and tie. What will I do?”

“I’m sure you’ll manage.” Natasha levered herself off the bed to make herself presentable in the full length mirror. It took a strategic application of water and soap.

The door to the suite slid open, revealing a strawberry-blonde woman in slick business garb and high heels that Natasha immediately coveted. She was watching them behind an impassive face almost as impressive as Natasha’s own. “Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton?” the woman asked, even though she was sure to already know the answer.

“Ms. Potts,” Natasha said warmly. “It’s a pleasure.”

Potts responded to Natasha’s warmth with a genuine smile. “If you’ll follow me, we’ll have the interview finished in no time.”

Clint and Natasha shared a glance, Clint ready to go with the flow and Natasha hesitant. She trusted Clint’s instincts, so she walked out of the door, confidently following Potts. The hallway was white, the decorations a combination of reds, oranges and golds with the occasional portrait of Tony Stark for variety. Natasha barely managed to keep from rolling her eyes at the ostentation. At least her analysis of Tony Stark as an egomaniac had been on point.

Potts showed them into a large office, and slid behind a heavy oak desk. “So, Tony informs me that you are both skilled thieves.”

“You’re conducting the interview?” Clint blurted out in surprise.

“You have a problem with that?” Potts responded.

“No. Just surprised is all.” Clint recovered quickly.

“I am, as of last month, the acting CEO of Stark Industries. You are potential employees.”

Natasha wasn’t surprised when Stark handed over S.I. to Potts. The woman radiated competence from her bangs down to her stylish heels and had stayed strong when Stark had been admitted to the hospital. She had reportedly harangued the company’s scientists into creating a new element to heal him. Natasha kept her thoughts hidden behind a smiling face. “What do you want to know? Neither of us are experienced in corporate espionage.”

“Tony has enemies. Dangerous enemies. Yesterday’s incident revealed holes in his security. We’d like to hire you to fix those holes, and perhaps, in Tony’s words ‘Give Hammer a little trouble now and then.’”

Natasha had met Justin Hammer in a previous incarnation while still working for the Red Room. Being paid to mess with him sounded too good to be true. She stayed silent as she mentally worked through the variables.

“Sounds like a good deal.” Clint was hiding his confusion behind an increasingly wider smile. Natasha noted that Potts seemed immune to his charm. “What’s the catch? And do we get dental?”

“No catch, other than an employer who does things like hire people the day after they try to rob him.” There was a long-suffering frustration in Pott’s voice. “And yes, you get dental.”

Natasha knew Clint had wanted to settle down for a while. And to be honest, so did she, as long as she could be assured a life of some excitement and adventure. As unexpected as it was, Stark represented an opportunity to eat her cake and have it too. Her mind began to spin out scenarios into the future, dealing with Stark and S.H.I.E.L.D. and her offshore banking accounts and a million other variables. She’d have to ask Potts about salary, but that could wait.

“We’re in,” Natasha said, Clint giving a nod of approval beside her.

“Welcome to Stark Industries. I’ll think we’ll see more of each other.” Pepper sat back in her chair, her evaluative gaze giving her an almost familial resemblance to Natasha.

“I hope so,” Natasha replied.


	6. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha gets everything she set out for, and a little more.

“You bought us a mansion?”

“I bought _me_ a mansion,” Natasha corrected him. “ _You_ have a room and a shooting range. If you want to live here with me.” She examined him from the corner of her eye, expression hopeful.

“It’s a very nice mansion,” Clint admitted. “But what if I want to live in a cottage by the sea?”

Natasha looked around the grand ballroom, her eyes lingering on the gold and crystal chandelier, before returning her gaze to Clint. “I could live without the mansion. Or I could buy you a cottage and you can visit.”

“Just so you know, I can buy myself my own cottage. Or build it.” He crossed his arms, muscles bunched under his skin.

“I’m sure. But it’s fun buying things for you.” She bumped her shoulder into his, offering her hand for him to take.

He took it and turned towards her so they were facing each other, ballroom forgotten as they focused on each other. “Does that make me your trophy boyfriend?”

She ran her fingertips over the edge of his face, as his eyes bored into hers. “Well, you’re...” Natasha paused, choosing her words with care, “decorative. And I’m rich. I think you’re a great trophy boyfriend.” Clint pouted. Natasha took a deep breath and started talking a touch faster than usual. “I also think you’d make a great trophy husband. Marry me?” She smiled at him, waiting for him to react.

Clint threw back his head and laughed. “That has to be the worst proposal I’ve ever heard.”

Natasha raised one eyebrow. “I can think of a few worse. What about, ‘I look great in white and how ‘bout that tax deduction?’”

“Yeah, that’s way worse,” Clint said, nodding in agreement.

Natasha hit him lightly in the ribs. “You do realize that you’re supposed to say yes or no.”

Clint stepped forward to kiss her on the lips, drew back and looked her in the eyes. “Yes. A thousand times yes.”

“Good. You know, Las Vegas is only a five hour drive from here,” Natasha said suggestively.

They made it in three.


End file.
